I cannot tell you the exact date of my birth. As I was separated from my
mother at a very early age, this lack of knowledge on my part, I think,
should be excused. But Polly has often told me it was the second day of
April, 1866, that I came into her possession.
On that particular morning the wind was very high and had a stinging
bite in it and my mother, after giving me my breakfast, left me nestled
down in a bunch of tall, dry grass, and went out for her own breakfast.
I soon fell asleep. How long I had slept I do not know, when I was
suddenly aroused from my comfortable nap by a large, dark animal
snorting right over me. Of course, I was very much frightened and wished
my mother would come to me. If I had not been so shaky on my legs I
would have run away in search of her, but my feet had an uncomfortable
way of getting too far apart, and my body seemed entirely too heavy for
my legs; so I lay very still, hoping that this strange object might pass
on and not disturb me. But a few moments later there bent over me what I
soon after learned was a man.
“Hello!” he said, “here is a baby antelope. There—don’t struggle so, or
you will break your pipe-stem legs.”
Soon I found that it was useless for me to try to free myself from his
grasp, for while he was not at all rough, he held me quite firmly. Then
I began to shiver from fear; also from the cold wind.
“Poor little fellow—he is cold,” the man said, soothingly, and he took a
blanket from the pommel of his saddle and wrapped it around me. Then,
mounting his horse, with me still in his arms, we set out across the
prairie. After about half an hour he stopped at a gate, where there were
several log cabins huddled together.
“Polly! Come here, Polly!” the man called, and a little flaxen-haired
girl came running from one of the cabins.
“What is it, papa?” she called, as she opened the heavy gate.
“It is a new pet for you—a baby antelope,” and he handed me down to her.
Polly put me on the ground and lifted the blanket from around me.
“Oh, the funny little darling!” she cried. “Papa, he is all legs and
spots, and—and ears.”
“Yes,” the man replied; “he will soon lose his spots, but his legs and
ears will stay with him, and it won’t be very long until he will show
you how he can use those long legs of his.”
The man rode away, and Polly carried me into the house, where everybody
handled and looked at me, all of which made me feel forlorn indeed. But
when Polly put me into a box half full of nice, clean hay, in a sunny
nook between two of the cabins, I felt that the best thing for me to do
was to lie down and go to sleep.
After a comfortable nap I awoke, feeling very hungry, and began to call
feebly for my mother. But it was Polly, henceforth my foster mother and
beloved friend, that came in answer to my call. She carried me into the
kitchen, where a bottle, with a quill wrapped with a soft rag for a
stopper, was standing by the fire. Polly took the bottle and put the
stopper into my mouth. The rag was not pleasant to my taste, and the
quill, although disguised by many soft wrappings, was hard and
unyielding. Naturally, I objected, but Polly persisted, and after a
while I got a taste of the warm milk that flowed through the quill. Then
I ceased to struggle and proceeded to take my dinner in the only way I
knew.
At an early age I was taught to eat cornmeal and wheat bran, both of
which I liked very much.
Soon the yard became entirely too small for me. I longed to go outside,
where there was room for me to use my legs, and I got to watching for
the gate to be opened. Polly noticed my desire to get outside the gate,
and one day when I was standing near it, looking out through a crack in
the fence, she came and put her arms around my neck.
“Lopez,” and her voice had a note of sadness in it that I had never
heard before, “it is because I love you so that I keep you shut up in
this yard. A big, wicked panther lives near here, and he might carry you
off, just as he did my little lamb. I never told you about it before,
because I did not want to make you feel sad, and—and, Lopez, I thought
maybe you would feel jealous if you knew how much I had cared for
something else.”
I tried to make her understand that I was not in the least jealous of
the dead lamb; also that the fact that a panther lived near the ranch
did not alarm me. I longed for freedom—glorious freedom—and felt that
there was no animal of the plains that I would not willingly enter the
lists against in a foot race.
One bright morning, soon after this, Polly’s father opened the gate, at
the same time saying to her, “I am going to turn Lopez out for a little
while this morning and let him stretch his legs and eat some grass.”
“Oh, papa!” she cried; “he will run away, and the panther will catch
him.”
“Oh, no,” her father replied; “he will come back, and you need not fear
the panther at this time of day.”
Caution is one of the characteristic traits of my family, so I
approached the open gate slowly and stood looking out for a few moments.
The ranch is situated on the bank of a small stream, which here swings
around, forming a deep crescent. Lying within the loop, between the
stream and a low range of hills, which just above the house flattens
down to a ridge, is a lovely valley, level as a floor, and perhaps a
mile and a half in length. At the widest point it is not over
three-quarters of a mile wide and narrows down to a point at each end of
the crescent. When I saw this beautiful playground my heart leaped with
joy, and I sprang away with the fleetness of the wind. When I had tired
myself out running around the valley I came back to Polly, who still
stood by the open gate.
After this Polly allowed me to go out every morning, and again late in
the afternoon; and a little later I had perfect freedom, going and
coming when it pleased me. I never stayed out at night, however, and but
seldom went beyond the beautiful valley, which was my playground.
One warm day in midsummer Polly and her father came out to the live-oak
tree by the gate, in the dense shade of which I usually took my noon
nap. Polly was carrying her little work basket and some bright red
ribbon. Her father had a strap of leather and a small bright buckle. I
got up at once and went to them, curious to know what they were going to
do, besides the scarlet ribbon was very attractive. I soon saw that they
were making me a collar. The strap was measured to fit my neck and then
covered with the ribbon. Then the buckle was put on and a very large bow
of ribbon, which showed off handsomely against the white of my neck and
breast, finished the collar.
Soon after I learned the utility of this collar. It was early morning,
and I had gone over the ridge and was quietly feeding. Suddenly I raised
my head and saw a man, not fifty yards away, with his gun leveled toward
me. I looked at him very straight, and he lowered his gun and went away.
My bright collar had saved my life.
One bright November day I had gone to the top of the hill and was
looking away over that beautiful plain, when Polly came and stood by me,
her hand resting gently on my neck. Suddenly the thought came to me that
it would be a fine thing for Polly and I to go away and live on the
plains. What a free and happy life we would lead! We probably would find
other antelopes, and Polly in time might learn to run as fast as I.
As this idea took shape, I determined to try it at once. So, without
giving Polly any warning, I sprang away and ran a short distance, then
turned around and invited her to come on. She, thinking that I wanted to
romp, came after me; but when she could almost touch me, I ran away as
before, and again she came after me, laughing with glee. This maneuver I
repeated several times, all the time going further out on the prairie.
At last Polly stopped and looked back. Then, to divert her attention, I
put forth all my efforts to draw her into a romp. First, by running
around her in a circle, and then stopping near her to jump up and down
with my legs very stiff. This always amused her greatly, and it
succeeded this time. She laughed and ran after me, trying to catch me,
but I dodged first one way and then the other, just allowing her fingers
to touch me, then slipping away from her, but all the time going further
out on the prairie. At last Polly grew tired and stopped to look around
her. She gave a little gurgling cry of terror that brought me to her
side at once.
“Oh, Lopez!” she cried, “Lopez, I don’t know the way home. It all looks
alike, and I have forgotten which way we came.” She clasped her arms
around my neck and cried bitterly.
“Oh, Lopez!” she wailed, “don’t you know the way home? You know, animals
are smarter about such things than little girls.”
I did know the way perfectly well, and Polly’s grief hurt me so that I
was strongly tempted to lead her straight back to the ranch; but I
reasoned that it had cost me considerable effort to get her this far,
and why should I now turn back? Besides, to me, there was no reason why
Polly should not be perfectly happy in this new and free life, when she
should become accustomed to it. And why should she not adapt herself to
my mode of life as easily as I had myself to hers?
Reasoning thus, I deliberately started in the opposite direction to the
ranch, walking slowly, with Polly by my side.
Thus we wandered on for perhaps an hour, then I stopped to graze, and
Polly sank down on the grass to rest. But soon she sprang up, saying:
“This won’t do, Lopez; we must go on and try to find home. Just see how
low the sun is.” And then she began to cry.
We had started out early in the afternoon, and the warm sunshine made
the air very comfortable. Now the sun hung, a great red ball, just above
the dark line that marked the union of sky and plain, and the chill of
evening was fast coming on. We wandered on, apparently the only living
creatures on this vast plain—on and on, until the last ray of sunlight
had been swallowed up by the dusk of evening. The sky was thickly dotted
with glittering, twinkling stars, and still we wandered on. A band of
white appeared just above the eastern horizon, quickly followed by the
moon, which filled the lonely plain with the softened glory of its
light, and still we wandered on.
After what seemed to me a very long time, Polly sank down by a bunch of
tall grass, and I lay down close by her side. She slipped her hand
through my collar and soon fell asleep. As the night grew colder, Polly
nestled closer to me, and as we had a thick bed of dry grass we were
tolerably warm.
Polly slept quietly, and now I, too, fell asleep, and was only awakened
by the broad light of day.
I got up and went to grazing near where Polly was lying still asleep.
Soon I saw a wolf go from the carcass of a dead cow to a pool of water
and drink. Being quite thirsty, as soon as the wolf had gone away I went
to the pool myself and drank. Then, thinking Polly might be thirsty,
too, I went back to her and rubbed my nose against her face to wake her.
She sat up and looked around her in a dazed sort of way for a few
minutes, then stood up and strained her eyes, first in one direction and
then in another. At last she turned to me, and I could see that her lips
were quivering.
“Lopez, I think there is water where those small trees are growing;
anyway, we will go and see.”
When we reached the pool Polly knelt down and drank, and then gathered
and ate several handfuls of red haws from the scrubby little trees that
grew around the pool. We then started on, walking as fast as Polly
could.
We had gone on for perhaps two hours, when I insisted upon stopping to
eat some more grass. Polly pulled at my collar. “Oh, Lopez, come on,”
she said, a little crossly. “If I can do without something to eat,
surely you can, too.” But I would not go, and she sat down in the grass
to wait for me.
When we started on again I noticed that Polly was shivering. The sun had
disappeared behind a misty veil of clouds and it was much colder than it
had been in the early morning. Later in the day we came to a deep
ravine. A few pecan trees grew along its banks, and here Polly gathered
some of the fallen nuts and ate them, while I ate my dinner of grass.
We found a place where a smooth trail crossed the gully. This we
followed until it broadened out and was lost in the prairie grass.
The sky was now a dull slate color, and little feathery flakes of snow
were falling. I could see a dark streak in the distance, which I knew
must be timber. Instinct taught me that here we should find shelter, and
towards this we were hurrying. Little drifts of snow were gathering in
Polly’s flaxen hair, and her hands were purple from cold. She stumbled
often, sometimes quite falling down, but she would get up and struggle
on. The timber still seemed a great way off, when Polly stopped.
“It is no use for me to try, Lopez,” she said; “I can’t go any further.
You will have to go on alone,” and she sank down into the snowy grass.
Now, this was a terrible fix to be in. The storm was growing worse every
minute, and I knew that it must be almost night. I would run around
Polly and stamp my feet, then rub my nose against her face, trying to
persuade her to get up and go on, but she would only say, “Poor Lopez, I
can’t go any further.” After awhile she would not notice me; then I knew
she was asleep.
A feeling of despair was coming over me, when I saw two men, riding
toward the timber. I ran out, so that I was directly in their path, and
stood facing them, stamping my feet. It was evident that they were
watching me with some interest, and when they were near me the older of
the two exclaimed, “Why, that is Polly Vinson’s pet antelope. Rope him,
Bob, and we will take him home!”
The young man loosened a coil of rope from the pommel of his saddle and
began to swing a loop above his head; but before the loop could descend
I sprang away and ran to where Polly was lying, now almost covered with
snow. The two men started on, and I ran round and round and stamped my
feet. I was almost frantic.
They stopped again, and the younger one came to us. He got off his horse
and bent over Polly, then turned and called to his companion, who was
now coming toward us:
“Mr. Dawson, here is little Polly herself, and I fear she is dead.” He
lifted Polly up and shook her, rather roughly, I thought. “Polly!
Polly!” he cried, “wake up and tell me how you came here.”
Polly opened her eyes and sleepily looked at the young man. “Oh, Mr.
Bob,” she said wearily, “Lopez and I are lost. Won’t you please take us
home?” Then she leaned her head against him and closed her eyes again.
He quickly pulled off his overcoat and wrapped it around Polly, and
handed her up to the older man. Then, tying the end of his rope through
my collar he mounted his horse, when we started swiftly toward the
timber. To be tied was an indignity that I had never before submitted
to, but now I was so glad to have some help with Polly that I made no
resistance.
Very soon were were at the Dawson ranch. Indeed, Polly and I, without
knowing it, had been going straight to the ranch, and were not more than
a mile away when she gave out and went to sleep in the snow.
When Polly was warm and had eaten something, Mr. Dawson put her to bed,
and Mr. Bob took me to the warm kitchen, where I had a nice supper of
wheat bran. While I was eating Mr. Dawson came to the kitchen and patted
me on the neck. “Brave Lopez,” he said, “you saved the life of your
little mistress.”
After a few minutes the young man stood up. “Mr. Dawson,” he said, “I am
going to ride to Vinson’s to-night and let him know that his child is
safe.”
“What,” cried Mr. Dawson, “ride ten miles through this storm? You must
not think of such a thing.”
“Yes,” replied the young man, quietly, “I shall go. Blackbird will carry
me there safely, and I shall only be doing as I would be done by.”
A little later I heard him ride away, and then I went to sleep.
Alice Moss Joyner.
[Illustration: BURROWING-OWL.
(Speotyto cunicularia hypogaea.)
½ Life-size.
FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES.]
THE BURROWING OWL.
(_Speotyto cunicularia hypogaea._)
The Burrowing Owl is a denizen of the prairies and plains west of the
Mississippi and the Missouri rivers. It is found from localities
somewhat north of the United States as far to the southward as
Guatemala. In some parts of this large area it is exceedingly common,
and it is the only representative of the owl tribe that inhabits, in any
numbers at least, the treeless regions of the western states.
Unlike other species of owls, the Burrowing Owl is especially fitted for
a subterranean mode of life. It will make its home in the burrows of the
various animals that inhabit the prairie regions. These birds are social
and live in colonies consisting of several pairs. Some Indians have
claimed that it retires into its burrow at the approach of winter, and
there remains in a torpid condition during the cold weather. Careful
observers have, however, shown that this is not the case. It may be said
that, except in the northern part of its range, where the winters are
severe, it is resident wherever found and not migratory. It is probable
that it would not be migratory at all were it not that the animals upon
which it feeds are not obtainable in severe weather. Investigation has
proved that the stories of the confidential relations existing between
the Burrowing Owl, the prairie dog and the rattlesnake are pure
fabrications of an imaginative mind, greatly strengthened by additions
as they are passed from person to person. The only foundation for these
stories is the fact that this Owl and also the rattlesnake do
occasionally enter the burrows of the prairie dog. Dr. Coues has said
“that the Owls live at ease in the settlements and on familiar terms
with their four-footed neighbors is an undoubted fact; but that they
inhabit the same burrows or have any intimate domestic relations is
quite another thing. It is no proof that the quadrupeds and the birds
live together that they are often seen to scuttle at each other’s heels
into the same hole when alarmed, for in such a case the two simply seek
the nearest shelter independently of each other.” It is not at all
strange that the snakes should also enter these holes. It may be that
they do so for the want of some other retreat on a broad expanse of
prairie, but it is much more probable that they are in search of food,
either in the form of young dogs or the eggs of the Owl. Though the
Burrowing Owls are found with the burrowing mammals, they do not occupy
the same holes with them and do without doubt drive them out if they
wish to pre-empt the burrows for their own use.
Though the Burrowing Owl probably obtains most of its food in the early
twilight, it is frequently “in motion on the brightest days, capturing
its prey or evading its pursuer with the greatest ease.” Like the
sparrowhawk, it frequently hovers in the air and drops upon its prey.
Its food consists of the smaller rodents, including the young of the
prairie dog, frogs, fish, lizards, snakes and insects of various kinds.
In fact, its food is so varied and consists of noxious animals to so
great an extent that it is of great service to the agriculturist. Dr.
Fisher says: “In summer and fall, when grasshoppers and crickets are
exceedingly abundant on the western plains, the Burrowing Owl feeds
almost exclusively on such food. Like the sparrowhawk, this little Owl
will chase and devour grasshoppers until its stomach is distended to the
utmost.” It is rare and only when pressed for food that it attacks and
kills other birds.
Dr. C. S. Canfield gives the following account of its nesting habits: “I
once took pains to dig out a nest of the Burrowing Owl. I found the
burrow was about four feet long and the nest was only about two feet
from the surface of the ground. The nest was made in a cavity of the
ground, of about a foot in diameter, well filled with dry, soft
horse-dung, bits of an old blanket and the fur of a coyote that I had
killed a few days before. One of the parent birds was on the nest, and I
captured it. It had no intention of leaving the nest, even when entirely
uncovered with shovel and exposed to the open air. It fought bravely
with beak and claws. I found seven young ones, perhaps eight or ten days
old, well covered with down, but without any feathers. The whole nest,
as well as the birds, swarmed with fleas. It was the filthiest nest I
ever saw. There are few birds that carry more rubbish into the nest than
the Burrowing Owls, and even the vultures are not more filthy.” In this
nest Dr. Canfield found scraps of dead animals, both of mammals, snakes
and insects.
Major Bendire believes that when these Owls are once mated they are
paired for life. He also likens their love-note, which is heard about
sundown, to the call of the English cuckoo. He says that it is “a
mellow, sonorous and far-reaching ‘coo-c-oo,’ the last syllables
somewhat drawn out, and this concert is kept up for an hour or more.
These notes are only uttered when the bird is at rest, sitting on the
little hillock surrounding the burrow. While flying about a chattering
sort of note is used and when alarmed a short shrill ‘tzip-tzip.’ When
wounded and enraged it utters a shrill scream and snaps its mandibles
rapidly together, making a sort of rattling noise, throws itself on its
back, ruffles its feathers and strikes out vigorously with its talons,
and with which it can inflict quite a severe wound.”